My chest tightened. Right. Of course. I'd gotten caught up in the creative collaboration and forgotten that this actually mattered. That sixteen thousand beings needed shelter and I'd just volunteered to help provide it with my primitive Earth training and charcoal-stained notebooks.
"I don't know how to prepare that kind of presentation," I admitted. "I mean, I know architecture, I know urban planning, but your technical standards are completely different from anything on Earth and?—"
"Then I'll teach you." Zor'go said it like it was obvious. Like it didn't represent months of his time, like training a human in Zandovian technical specifications was a minor inconvenience rather than an enormous investment. "We have four months before the displaced beings arrive. The habitat sector must be operational by then. Can you commit to that schedule?"
Four months to design living spaces for sixteen thousand beings from twelve different species, using technology I barely understood, working with an alien architect who'd been skeptical of my value thirty seconds ago.
"Yes," I said. Because what else could I say? "Yes, I can."
"Then we begin immediately." Zor'go highlighted several sections of the design. "These three neighborhood clusters need your variable pod configurations. I'll handle the structural engineering and systems integration. We'll meet daily at 0600 to synchronize our work."
"Daily at 0600," I repeated, my voice coming out smaller than intended. Terror and excitement were warring in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
"Is that a problem?"
"No. Not a problem. I just..." I gestured at my notebook, my charcoal-stained fingers, my rumpled clothes that I'd been wearing since before Dana's bonding ceremony yesterday. "I'll be more prepared tomorrow."
"You were prepared today." Zor'go's ice-blue eyes held mine, and something in his expression softened microscopically. "You showed me something I couldn't see alone. That's the definition of effective collaboration."
The words hit harder than they should have. I'd spent six months on Mothership feeling like a burden. Like dead weight the Zandovians tolerated out of obligation or pity. But Zor'go wasn't looking at me like I was a burden. He was looking at me like I was useful.
Like I mattered.
I smiled before I could stop myself, small and shy and probably ridiculous, but genuine. "Thank you. I won't let you down."
"See that you don't." The softness vanished, replaced by that focused intensity. "This project will define Mothership's expansion capacity for the next decade. Failure isn't acceptable."
The warmth drained from my chest, replaced by determination. Right. This wasn't about validation or feeling useful. This was about sixteen thousand beings who needed homes.
"Understood," I said.
"Good. Now, traffic flow calculations for your neighborhood clusters. The residential pods need to integrate with existing corridor systems without creating bottlenecks during shift changes."
He pulled up another holographic model, and we dove back into the work.
The numbers were brutal. Zor'go walked me through Mothership's current traffic patterns with crew rotation schedules, communal dining times, shift overlaps, emergency evacuation protocols. Every variable that affected how beings moved through space had to be accounted for in the design.
I sketched while he calculated, my hands moving faster as I started to internalize the rhythm of his thinking. He'd present a constraint, I'd visualize solutions, he'd evaluate feasibility. The back-and-forth became almost musical, call and response, theme and variation.
"Your courtyard design creates a chokepoint here," Zor'go said, highlighting a junction point where three corridors met. "During shift change, this will become congested."
I studied the model, chewing my lip. He was right, the sight lines I'd prioritized for psychological comfort would create traffic problems. But there had to be a way to balance both needs.
"What if we varied the floor levels?" I sketched quickly, showing a split-level design where traffic could flow on multiple planes. "Upper walkway for through-traffic, lower courtyard for gathering. Beings who want to congregate can, beings who need to move quickly can bypass without feeling like they're avoiding community spaces."
Zor'go's fingers flew across the holoprojector, modeling my concept in three dimensions. His markings flickered, that shimmer of crystalline blue I was learning meant excitement.
"Structural load distribution requires additional support columns," he muttered, already calculating. "But the traffic flow improvement is significant. And the vertical sight lines..." He rotated the model, examining it from multiple angles. "This actually enhances the sense of openness rather than diminishing it."
"Because height creates volume even when horizontal space is limited," I said, warming to the idea. "And if we add transparent flooring in sections, the levels feel connected instead of separated."
"Transparent flooring requires specialized materials." But he was already pulling up specifications, not dismissing the idea. "Cost increase would be substantial."
"What about partial transparency? Strategic windows in the walkway floors, just enough to maintain visual connection between levels without requiring full clear-surface construction."
Zor'go looked at me, and for a moment his ice-blue eyes held something that might have been appreciation. "You think like an engineer."
"I think like an architect who learned to compromise with engineers." I adjusted my glasses, suddenly self-conscious. "My thesis advisor always said the best designs exist at the intersection of ideal and possible."
